As nature could deuise
In moste goodly wyse
Who so lyst behold
It maketh louers bold
To her to sue for grace
Her fauour to purchase
The sker upon her chin
Enchased on her fayre skin
Whiter than the swan
It wold make any man
To forget deadly syn
Her fauour to wyn

For this most goodly flour

This blossome of freshe coloure, &c.

SOFT and make no din

For now I wil begin

To haue in remembraunce
Her goodly dalyaunce
And her goodly pastaunce
So bad and so demure
Behauing her so sure
With wordes of pleasure
She wold make to the lure

And any man conuert

To geue her his whole hart

She made me sore amased

Upon her whan I gased

Me thought mine hart was crased

My eyen were so dased

For this most goodly flour

The blossome of fresh colour, &c.

AND to amend her tale

Whan she lyst to auale

And with her fingers small
And handes soft as silke
Whiter than milke

That are so quickely vayned
Wherwith my hand she strained
Lord how I was payned
Unneth I am refrayned
How she me had reclaymed
And me to her retayned
Enbrasyng therwith all
Her goodly middle small
With sides long and streyt
To tel you what conceit
I had then in a trice

The matter wer to nyce

And yet there was no vyce

Nor yet no villany

But only fantasy

For this most goodly floure

The blossome of fresh colour, &c.

BUT wherto shold I note

How often dyd I tote

Upon her pretye fote

It raysed myne hart rote

To see her treade the grounde
With heles short and round

She is plainly expresse
Egeria the goddesse

And lyke to her ymage
Importured with corage
A louers pilgrimage
There is no best sauage
Ne no tygre so wood

But she wold chaunge his mood

281

Suche relucent grace

Is formed in her face

For this most goodly flour

This blossome of freshe coloure, &c.

So goodly as she dresses
So properly she presses
The bryght golden tresses
Of her heare so fyne
Lyke Phebus beames shyne
Where to should I disclose
The garteryng of her hose
It is for to suppose
Howe that she can weare
Gorgiouslye her geare
Her freshe habilementes
With other implementes
To serue for all ententes
Lyke dame Flora queene
Of lusty somer grene
This moste goodly floure

This blossome of freshe coloure, &c.

HER Kyrtel so goodly lased

And vnder that is braced

Such pleasures that I may

Neither write nor say

Yet thoughe I write not with ink
No man can let me thinke
For thought hath liberti
Thought is franke and free
To thynke a mery thought
It cost me litle or nought

Wold God mine homely stile
Were pollished with the file
Of Ciceros eloquence

To prayse her excellence

The most goodlye floure

This blossome of freshe coloure, &c.

SELECT POEMS

OF

SIR THOMAS WYAT.

WITH

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

BY

EZEKIEL SANFORD.